


Hanging By a Moment

by Dingdong (Dingydong)



Category: Football RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Angst, Cheating, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 01:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6175576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dingydong/pseuds/Dingdong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took him seven steps to fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hanging By a Moment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tempered_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempered_rose/gifts).



> This is my first fic written in English. Considering I've never written any English articles more than 200 words, I'd say I'm quite content with myself with this one. Please bear with me if there are some little bugs. And it's totally appreciated if you can correct me. And do tell me if I made any major mistakes!  
> Thank u!

He walks out of the door, and freezes. The world, instead of being in the usual invincible cheering mood, is silent and gentle. The ivy on his wall is bottle-green, not jade-green. The tiles on his neighbour’s roof are crimson, not light red. And he hears rustle——it is raining.  
For a moment, he can’t tell he’s in Valencia or in Manchester. He has a feeling: he will turn right, there parked his car. He will drive out of his gate, down the street, stop at the corner, there is a bakery he goes to, he will greet the owner, buy his breakfast: a couple of croissants and a cup of coffee.  
So he turns right——there is a parterre left by the ex-tenant. It is mostly deserted now. His car is on the left side of the house.  
He’s in Valencia, and he doesn’t have an umbrella.  
The rain is short-lived anyway, it has stopped by the time he comes out of his car. It is barely 8am when he arrives at Paterna. He tried to move training up to an earlier time, but no one, except for maybe Phil, appreciated the idea. The training ground is usually empty at this time, so he is caught off guard when he hears his name.  
“Senor! Senor Neville!”  
He halts, and turns around. It is a little boy, roughly 7 or 8, holding a ball between his arm and body, running towards him.  
“Hola.” He smiles at the boy, preparing a pen to sign. But the boy doesn’t ask for any autograph or picture, he just starts to speak in Spanish. Gary can’t comprehend most of it, but he does understand the boy’s last question——he’s been asked too many times that he can recognize it in Spanish—— _Why can’t we win?_  
He has answered that question too many times too: they have a very young squad which still needs to run in; their injury problem isn’t solved yet. But he doesn’t say any of that, instead, he says the truth. “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure out that too.”  
The boy looks at him with a face too innocent, too pure, too curious. He is not sure whether the boy understands him or not. He pats the boy on the head, and adds, “But we will. Ganaremos.”  
The boy nods at him and runs away, then stops after a few steps, turns around and shouts at him: “Amunt!”  
The joyful expression on his face makes Gary’s heart wrench. He would hate to see that expression turn into angry or disappointment. They need to win. They have to.  
Phil pushes open the office door 40 minutes after, and unzips his coat. "You are early."  
"No, I'm not." He checks the watch on the wall, "It's fucking 8:43."  
"You are in fucking Spain. Try to sleep late every now and then."  
"I'm not those lazy fuckers."  
"You really need to relax a bit."  
"How can I?"  
He stops abruptly when he realizes how vulnerable the question leaves him.  
Phil looks at him with worried eyes, and opens his mouth to say something, and then decides it’s better to not say anything.  
It feels awful to know what Phil is trying to say without hearing the actual words——why not just buy some older, more experienced players? All the things that you are insisting, what if they are wrong?  
Back two months before, no one would try to ask him that. Phil, the president, the club owners, they were all so convinced by his theory——to foster youngsters instead of buying big-name players. His theory is logically impeccable, but the team's performance is far from it. He hasn’t been able to win a single game in La Liga yet, and those games he has won in the Copa de Rey are not worth mentioning. He was in an awkward situation before. It was like walking in the ice, while everybody was expecting that moment to happen, for him to fall. And he did fall.  
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. It took him seven steps. If before that moment were walking in the ice, then after that would be burning on the fire.  
He knows full well that he wasn’t brought in as a savior, but as a bridge. But there are two kinds of bridges, one that gets you to the other side, one that doesn’t. Of course he wants to be the former, but he’s not sure he can now. He has prepared for all kinds of trouble before took on the job, but he hasn’t gotten a plan for what to do when he doubts himself. He almost feels grateful to Phil for not actually asking him the question, so that he can pretend that he doesn’t know what Phil wants to say and move on to the next topic.  
They are playing against Barcelona tomorrow at home in the second round of Copa de Rey semi-final. The result is not much a suspense, but he still has to do his job as a manager. He watched a few clips with Phil before the players all arrive, and then the training begins.  
He can sense despair in the air, slowly poisoning every living soul on the training ground.  
Talent. That was the first thing he saw in these young players, but somehow, these talented boys are not well driven. It’s a bit ironic to think that he, as a player, was famous for his passion, but as a manager, his team is spiritless. Who is there to bring this team spirit? It’s not him, he would admit it now. He doesn’t understand this team, this club, this league, this country, at least not as well as he thought he did. He’s not a man who would easily regret something, but he does have the question _did I make the decision too hastily?_ creeping up more and more often. And the time he takes to persuade himself is becoming longer and longer every time the question shows up. Yet, he feels like a hypocrite.  
He doesn’t realize that he has left his phone in the office, until Phil comes to him with it in his hand during lunch break. The phone is ringing, and he immediately knows who it is when he sees Phil’s darkened face. He takes the phone, and flees the lunchroom. As soon as he’s alone, he picks up the phone, and blurts out “I said don’t call me!”  
There are two seconds of silence on the other end, and then the annoying scouser accent gets through, “Is Phil there?”  
“It’s not about Phil.” he lies, because it’s a little about Phil in a strange way, “The thing we had will never work out, so stop it.”  
”I’m not trying anything.”  
“Yes, you are. By calling me like this every fucking week.”  
“Can’t I just call you like a friend?”  
“No, you can’t.”  
“Come off it, Gary. I’m just calling to ask how you feel about tomorrow’s game.”  
“Well, the last game against Barcelona was a disaster. You can expect the boys are not feeling so good. But we will——” and he is interrupted by Jamie.  
“It’s not for Daily Mail. It’s for meself.”  
Then, like a balloon stuck by a needle, the desire to pretend that everything is alright leaves him in a puff. He sighs heavily, and answers “Then I’d say don’t hold your breath.”  
“Do something Gary, or you will see the end of your first manager job fairly soon.” Jamie says it like he’s making fun of him, but Gary knows there’s no less hurtful way to talk about this fact than pretending it is a joke.  
“I don’t need you to tell me this.”  
“You said the first five months wouldn’t determine if you are a success or a failure, didn’t you?” Jamie asks, and the rhetorical question really gets Gary. Did he or didn’t he? The words seem his style, but how can he be so calm and in order two months before, and so scorched and caught up in this team now? “No matter what, trust youself for me, alright Gaz?”  
He nods subconsciously, the words pumps some warm blood into his cold body, and he didn’t know his body is cold like that.  
“Gaz?”  
Jamie’s voice reminds him that Jamie’s in the other side of the line, he can’t see him nodding; they are separated by a whole sodding France; Jamie’s in that country which is always raining, has a bakery at the corner of his street, has a studio in which they record shows for Sky, has a stadium called Old Trafford.  
“Yes, I heard you.” he says, and adds a moment later, “Thank you.”  
When he walks back to the lunchroom, Phil has already finished the greater part of his own meal, and his has gone cold. There are several players and staffs sitting dispersedly in the room, chatting. No one seems to notice the reappearance of him, except for Phil who looks up at him with a complex expression. It’s a mixture of disappointment, angry, query, understanding, and somehow, love.  
He pulls out the chair, sits down and starts to eat his pasta. He speaks in between bites, “Just calling to ask about tomorrow’s game.” The pasta feels too spicy in his mouth, “We’re over, like I told you.”  
Phil doesn’t say anything, just nods——a different Phil from three months before.  
Three months before, he had made that terrible choice to invite Jamie over to his party, a choice ranks even higher than _making out with Jamie Carragher_ in his _Worst Choices Ever Top10_ list.  
He had his family members and close friends at the party. They just finished BBQ in his backyard, everyone else was inside the house while he was staying behind to clean the mess. Then Jamie showed up through the backdoor again, walked to him, all light-footed and smirky. They stood beside the grill, chatting, clearing away the remaining food together. He ignored the fact that Jamie’s hand brushed his too often, and the casual touches Jamie landed at his lower back. But then Jamie leaned in close and nuzzled his face. He was startled at first. Then he looked around, to find nobody’s present. And a foolish string was pulled at that moment.  
He had a wife, two daughters inside the house. So he knew he shouldn’t have had that kind of relationship with Jamie Carragher, and he surely as hell shouldn’t be nuzzled by him in his backyard. But the temptation was too sweet to reject. So he kissed Jamie and told him to wait in the guest room.  
The way from his backyard to the guest room was full of excitement, stimulation, and nervousness. He had to walk past living room where his family and friends were in, sneak into the hall way, and slip in the guest room without anyone noticing. The feeling of cheating, instead of making him guilty, made him worked up. He had his time hearing conscious knocking on his door after, but at that moment, he was too busy knocking Jamie down with his mouth.  
They tumbled down to the bed, hands on each other, exploring every inch experimentally, though they had known those fleshes many times before. Gary was on top of Jamie, blood running through his vein, heart pounding fiercely. He felt his cheeks burning like fire, his ears ringing like a thousand raindrops had fallen on them, he couldn’t hear the rest of the world for some seconds he was afraid that he would go deaf.  
Everything was perfect until a voice intruded. He immediately rolled down from Jamie at the sound, stood up and turned around. There was Phil standing there, completely shocked. Through his buzzing ears, he heard Phil say “What the fuck are you doing?”, and through the corner of his blurring eye, he saw Jamie stood up, and was busy straightening his cloth. The world slowed down from high-speed to normal speed, then froze at the moment.  
His skin was still burning from those fire-setting touches, but his heart was suddenly cold as an arctic ice block. He didn’t know what to say, but it felt like he was supposed to say something. So he lifted his lips, trying to stay cool, and said, “Listen, Phil.” But the words were still nowhere near his lips. Phil was staring at him, waiting. He could feel the tension was urging him to keep talking, to tell Phil what he needed to _listen_. Yet, his mind was blank.  
“Fuck!” He finally cursed at the floor, and said “I can’t tell you what’s going on with us. But, just don’t tell anybody, would you?”  
“Do I look stupid?” Phil was obviously offended by the question.  
“A little, Phil.” And that was Jamie desperately and untimely trying to ease the tension.  
His anxiety erupted fully at that moment. He snapped out “Shut up Carra!” with volume he soon realized too loud that it might be heard outside.  
“I’m aware of my situation here, Phil.”  
“You do?” Phil frowned, eyeing him with disbelief.  
“Yes, I do.” He had to gather all his courage to not break eye contact with his younger brother, and to look convictive as possible. “And I’ll take care of it.”  
He was not sure if Jamie glanced at him when he said _take care of it_ , he was just glad that Phil looked calmer and more backed to the normal him. Before he could dredge up more excuses to persuade Phil, the door opened. And there stood his wife at the door, looking concerned.  
“Everything alright?” She asked.  
He looked at her, and painfully realized once again how beautiful she was, how she gave her mellow forehead, her smooth hair to their daughters. He smiled at her, and answered, “Yes, it’s alright.”  
But it was not alright. The three of them knew that. Hopefully no one else did.  
Two days after, he found himself standing in the underground parking lot waiting for Jamie to come off work. He was there to have the conversation which was meant to happen months ago when they first pleaded a business trip to sleep in the same room.  
In fact, he told Phil that things were over between him and Jamie before he actually broke things up with Jamie. Because, there was in no way Jamie would say _no_ , innit? They were celebrities, they had their lovely wives and children. And most importantly, it wasn’t love between them, was it? It was just some crazy nights together. And days.  
As he had expected, Jamie didn’t say no, didn’t even frown. He just nodded imperceptibly, patted Gary on the arm, and said, “Alright. See ya next Monday then.”  
It stung at first, to act normal on Mondays when meeting each other, to smile at each other but not feel revived, to shake hands but not feel touched. Luckily enough, he got away with those fidgety Mondays pretty soon——the job came in. He had been working on getting the job for weeks, and the timing just made the job more perfect. So he left Manchester, and came to Valencia, with a heart that was a bit relieved, a bit sour, and much ambitious.  
But that was three months before. His ambition is cast away to the corner now, because it has drained all his energy only to keep everything from falling apart. Yet, everything is.  
The next day, he arrives at Mestalla one hour before the match begins. The stadium is obviously quieter than most of match days. No one is standing under the big screen watching advertisements, no one’s sitting at the stairs waiting to enter the stadium.  
He has been told, by Phil, that tickets for this match didn’t sell well, and the club has been giving out tickets to fans to lure them to the game. It’s only reasonable. He wouldn’t want to watch a team go to second round after being beaten 7-0 if he were a fan. Hell, he would probably slash a team like that if he were still a pundit.  
He doesn’t walk out to the pitch until 10 minutes before the opening whistle blows. And the situation is worse than he thought. The seats are barely fulled to one third, those exposed spell out MES--LLA, like a slap smacked on his cheek. And the boys, he can see in their faces that they are not content, they are disappointed, they feel abandoned. He thinks he needs to say something, but don’t know what. So he swallows, and looks away.  
One thing on the stand catches his attention. It’s a paperboard someone’s holding, and its content is written in English. He sees his name on it. It reads _GARY NEVILLE GO BACK TO ENGLAND. U DON’T BELONG HERE_. And that reminds him of the first day he went to Paterna——the fans were standing outside of the fences, holding paperboards like that one, except it was _WELCOME GARY_ written in them then. He can’t tell when did that change.  
“Don’t mind those cunts.”  
He turns around and finds Phil standing beside him, lips pursed into a thin line, looks older than he remembers, but still his little brother.  
“Yeah.” He says, and pats Phil on the back.  
He thinks about a week ago, when those stabbing 7-0s were showed on every big screen inside Camp Nou, every direction he turned to reminded him what a failure he was (at least in that match). He saw a camera shooting him, and he felt his eyeballs were trying to flick away. He caught them like catching two little kids trying to escape punishment, and he held them still.  
The dressing room after that match was the most horrible place he had been to since he came to Spain. No one had any redundant thing to say, they just occasionally squeezed out one word or two when absolutely needed to. Normally, he could understand the basic things his players say in a dressing room, but he couldn’t comprehend a single word coming out of their mouths that night. He packed his things as slowly as he could, even packed a same tower for three times, so that he could be the last one to leave the room.  
But he was not the only last one, Phil was waiting for him by the door. He didn’t expect that, but wasn’t surprised neither. He nodded at Phil, and Phil patted him on the back, like they always do to each other.  
They walked out to the parking lot. To his surprise, a familiar figure was already there, waving at them with a stupid smirk. And that was the first time he met Jamie since he had left. When he resigned his job at Sky, he thought their link might break and never to be restored, but Jamie’s calls soon dispelled his concern.  
He was fine with those calls before he realized that they came too often. And he wouldn’t be so sensitive about it if he didn’t find that scouse accent pleasant to hear, or if those calls didn’t make him think about ‘what if’s like a teenager. So when that stubborn scouser refused to stop calling, he just stopped answering. He must have ignored dozens of calls by then. But he couldn’t just dismiss this very living person in front of him. And besides, part of him really needed this.  
They shook hands, Phil and Jamie. He couldn’t tell if there was awkwardness between them, but surely it wasn’t a friendly meeting. He told Phil to go first, and he would catch up to them. Then, there were just him and Jamie.  
“What are you doing here?” He asked, voice hoarse.  
“Got an interview to do with those Barca boys tomorrow.” Jamie said.  
“Yeah? Then why are you _here_?” His voice keyed up a pitch without him knowing it.  
“Thought I’d drop by and say thank you.” Jamie shrugged.  
“For what?” He frowned, sensing some jibes are on their way.  
“For making me the better manager out of us two, and I haven’t even started.”  
Instead of making him angry, the words made him relaxed a little. He even felt his lips curve to a smile. The smirk on Jamie’s face was that kind of smirks he had when he made fun of Gary, and Gary used to see them almost every week.  
Before he could absent himself from memories, a pair of strong arms had him folded in them suddenly. The familiar cologne whisked into his nose after. And Jamie’s voice was louder and clearer in his ear.  
“If you’d come back, I will let you be the better pundit.”  
He brought up his hands, rested them on Jamie’s waist, then buried his face into the crook of Jamie’s neck. And he couldn’t help, but widened his smile. “ _Let_ me?”  
“Yeah. You don’t know how many people are eyeing up your chair. Redders, Lamps, even Steven has asked about it.”  
The fact that Jamie still called that chair his almost tempted him to think that it wouldn’t be so bad if he just go back, if he just quit. And above all, Jamie smelled like England, of course more Liverpool, but still his homeland nevertheless. For the first time in two months, he allowed himself to really feel homesick. He had been hanging on the cliff for too long, any emotional weakness could be that gentle breeze that blew him off. But he was letting himself feel it tonight.  
The hug lasted way too long, there was no way to claim that it was just social etiquette. But for once, he didn’t care.  
Jamie’s body was pressed against him, chest humming while he started to talk again.  
“But I know you. You mancs just don’t know how to quit.” The frustration in Jamie’s voice was obvious.  
His titter was muffled by Jamie’s shoulder. “Or maybe I just don’t want to see your stupid face.”  
“No, you do.”  
He smiled again, and thought, _he does know me._  
Later that night, when he got to their parking spot, the bus was already set to leave. He caught up to them at the last minute. His reserved seat was empty, and Phil was sitting next to his seat, looked a little surprised by his appearance.  
“I told you to wait for me.” He asked, confused.  
“Yeah, but I thought you...”  
Phil didn’t finish the sentence, but he knew what Phil had in mind. Phil must thought he was going to spend the night with Jamie, that he needed that to pacify him. But Phil was wrong, because he had made his decision. That’s the thing about him: he makes decisions, even if they hurt him, even if he will someday look back and deems them wrong, he sticks to them ‘til the last minute.  
That was his decision to come to this place, to work as the head coach of this club, to walk out of his comfort zone. So as long as he can, he shall stick to it. And he will try and try and try, like a persistent manc he is, to success.  
He calls for the players to gather in a circle in the dressing room, and explains his tactics again. This time more convincing, more passionate. And he knows the players have received his message, because he sees in their eyes that they want to take back what they have lost, that they will try harder, and they won’t give up.  
Someone pushes open the door, and calls for the players to enter the pitch. He claps and watches his boys walking out of the door, heads held high, the black numbers and names on their backs distorted while they keep walking——Negredo, Piatti, Mina, Gaya...  
He follows the players to the aisle, and a vaguely familiar voice calls him behind. It’s the boy he bumped into last morning. He is standing five feet away from him, with the same happy face on, little fist held up high, and shouts at him, “Amunt!”  
He clenches his fist and rises it above his head, then he shouts back, “Amunt!”  
The cheering sound of the crowd spreads into the aisle, and he turns back, walks towards the exit. The green pitch in sight daring him to take the challenge, like it has done for twenty years and more. And like how he has responded for all those years, he walks out and tread it underfoot. Because that is the way he is: he will always take the challenge. Always.

**Author's Note:**

> My dear giftee, I'm not so good at angst, but I hope you would like this.


End file.
